


Revelations

by Project0506



Series: Soft Wars [45]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Humor, M/M, Possibly Asexual Character, Romance, subconscious pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: Finally, there's an answer.  It changes surprisingly little.
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox/CC-6454 | Ponds
Series: Soft Wars [45]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683775
Comments: 36
Kudos: 613





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nightingalewritings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightingalewritings/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Homefront is its own battlefield](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23444701) by [Project0506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506). 
  * Inspired by [Prime Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23492509) by [Project0506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506). 
  * Inspired by [The Unknown Unknown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23589301) by [Project0506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506). 



> Ponds is my manic pixie dream girl but also my Dwayne Johnson? It's a complex.

“How long have we been dating?”

“No,” says Gree. “No.” The word is immediate, emphatic and leaves no room for argument. He scoops up his pack and stuffs his holopad inside. “I am not going to be here for this. Comm me tomorrow. Remember what I said about the fresher not being up to code.” He’s gone before he allows his batchmate any room to respond.

Ponds sits on the one clear spot on the desk, sipping from one of the cups of caff in his hands and looking thoughtful. Fox groans inwardly: that’s never good.

He snags one of the cups from Ponds, gets an arm around his waist and scoops him off the desk and onto the couch. Fox plants himself on the other end, takes a sip. Grimaces. Ponds automatically trades their cups. The second doesn’t taste like guzzling pure sweetsap.

“Is the question here ‘how long have we been dating’,” Fox asks, “or ‘how long have I known we were dating and not told you’?”

Ponds tries to stick his feet in Fox’s lap, the brat. He naturally does not let that stand and a quick, silent squabble-come-slapfight ends with Fox half stretched along the couch, Ponds’ toes under his thighs.

“Either? Both?” Ponds licks a spot of chocolate cream from his top lip. He doesn’t get all of it. “Both,” he decides.

“About hour four of that one marathon bookshelf shopping trip,” Fox admits. “I actually liked the wrought iron six tier one with the insets. I just… didn’t want to be done yet.”

Ponds grins and nudges at his hip. “Sap,” he accuses fondly. Fox takes it as his due. “So how long have we been dating?”

“Almost seven years.”

It’s the first time in those said seven years Fox has ever seen Ponds speechless.

“But. But that’s _Kamino_!” he exclaims. Fox shrugs.

“You showed up one night with contraband snacks you needed to get rid of. You were disgustingly disappointed that I didn’t want any.”

He can nearly see Ponds brain working, replaying the memories. “You ate them though,” he muses.

“Yes,” says Fox pointedly. “I did.”

“Huh.”

The day the war ended Ponds dramatically burned his blacks, his grays and his black and gray PT uniform. He has an undersuit for his armor in deep blue with a spare in rust red, and several changes of fitted-but-maneuverable outfits for sparring and training in every shade commercialism decided was suited for the Serious Athlete. Everything else he owns is in varying shades of neon and garish, and typically multicolored.

“Peacocking,” Gree had muttered. Fox disagrees. He knows what it’s like to sit for years in people’s direct view and have them still look past you as if you were part of the furniture.

Today’s large-stitch cable knit sweater is orange and tan, desert colors. It looks soft and clearly handmade: the thumb holes are a bit uneven. A gift, most likely, from one of the many little brothers that had made the mistake of lingering within Ponds sights long enough and found themselves viciously adopted.

“I always assumed dating would be more… involved.”

“Yeah? You missing out on something?”

This is something that Ponds' cadet squad, Fox, and possibly that one little blond shit all know: Ponds doesn’t telegraph his attacks. That’s exactly the problem. Ponds doesn’t telegraph his attacks, but he telegraphs every single other aspect of his life. You never know _how_ he’s going to strike, but you can always tell _when_.

Fox throws his caff directly at Ponds’ face.

Ponds is already not where he was, and an almost lazy back-hand slaps the air-born cup even further off its intended target. Fox doesn’t see where, he’s already moving.

Knee hits the carpet on his roll to his feet but weight crashes into him. Shoulder under his armpit and ankle around his ankle, and Fox goes down before he makes it to standing. He turns it into a tumble, goes for a hold.

_Sith_ _fucking_ _hells_. The sweater was made by a damn vod, how did Fox forget that? No vod would give a commander a gift that would be an obvious, exploitable handicap. Fox’s grapple slips off the smooth fibers as if the whole damn sweater was stitched from the scales of a sleen. The only hold he gets on it are finger deep and that would never be enough to even slow Ponds.

Ponds, sleen-like himself, slithers right out of the fabric and advances with one decisive charge, elbow leading and all his weight behind it. Fox is left with two handfuls of empty fabric and Ponds pinning him hip-to-hip and forearm across his collarbone.

Their breaths are rough but not labored. They’ve tussled for far longer than this before coming up with a clear victor before.

Ponds tastes overwhelmingly of sugar and chocolate and warmth. Fox chases the taste from his lips and into his mouth. Ponds is unsure but not passive, inexperienced but bottle-fire-quick on the pick-up. He’s always been viciously clever, Fox knows, though he plays the harmless void-brain so very well that few others do.

They move slowly, an exploration rather than an explosion, and Ponds is meticulous with it. When, long moments later, he pulls back it’s with a deep, considering bite to Fox’s bottom lip.

Fox could take or leave all of the rest of it, but that last bit he quite likes.

“Well?” he asks roughly.

Ponds is quiet as he considers, still perched on top of Fox eyeing him like some sort of predatory cat. “I don’t know. That seems weird.” His nose wrinkles.

“Bad?”

“Not _bad_. Just weird. Wet. I’m not sure I like it.”

Fox shrugs as much as he’s able. “Well there we go then.”

“There we go,” Ponds murmurs.

Ponds, Fox remembers, is _viciously_ perceptive.

He strikes faster than a vorntiger and teeth sink down into Fox’s bottom lip before he could brace himself. A whine, high pitched and reverberating, tears out of his chest. Ponds’ teeth clench, threatening and it’s as though air is punched out of him and he can never fill his lungs again. Ponds tugs backward and lets Fox lip slowly pry it’s way free of his hold.

Fox is breathing harder now than after their wrestle.

“ _There_ we go,” Ponds says, the brat. His thumb presses against the stinging flesh. Fox eyes slip closed. “I think I can probably handle this much.”

“You,” Fox growls, “are a fucking pest.”

“Yes but you love me. I want a ficus in the kitchen.”

Fox doesn’t even open his eyes when snaps his hips to the left and Ponds goes tumbling.

He smacks Ponds in the face with the sweater to disorient him and swings his knees up to give himself some standoff. By the time Fox gets his thighs slung over Ponds’ lower back, Ponds seems to have bored with it and drops flat on his stomach in a wordless surrender. Fox wriggles so his back is against the couch and his legs rest comfortably across Ponds’ back.

“We’re not putting a ficus in the kitchen.”

“Something vine-y,” Ponds continues ignoring Fox’s reasonable objection. “In the middle of hanging pans over the center island.”

Fox grunts, annoyed. That would actually tie in to the room, fucking hells. “Nothing flowering,” he decides.

“I said a _ficus_ ,” snips Ponds.

“And then you said vines, which aren’t ficus. Look for some fucking ivy or something, but don’t bring any flowers into my damn kitchen.” Fox can feel his eye roll.

“Diva,” insults the man wearing a citrus-green tanktop with purple light-saber patterns.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [These Boots are Made for Walking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23660587) by [Jazzybot4 (SniperinaJumper)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SniperinaJumper/pseuds/Jazzybot4)




End file.
